Hollow
by soda-rebel
Summary: And so the suspense begins.
1. Just a Taste

**Based on Tori Kelly's song 'Hollow'**

Aggression- physical or verbal behavior with the intent to harm or obliterate

Nations had always had an incurable fascination, almost a hunger, for power. They needed to dominate, they needed to conquer. It was almost programmed into their blood. Perhaps that was why they fought wars. To see another nation shaken by their overwhelming strength was the only victory they needed.

So that's how America would explain away the animosity between his fights with England. It hadn't been long ago when he declared independence. It almost felt like it was the first time whenever he remembered it. England's first reaction was to laugh at the proposition like it was a joke. He had reassured him it was genuine. England responded by screaming at him to leave his study and never come back. He took refuge with some locals that night. Perhaps, he could have chosen a better time to bring up the topic. Afterall, England had just stepped off the boat to the colonies that day. And it had hurt the old nation. America had seen the way England had held his breath, the way his hands shook with strain, the way he lifted his chin slightly. America had known, ever since he was small, those were the signs that England was going to cry. He had no doubt that on that night England had exhausted his eyes crying.

This wasn't their first confrontation. The first was merely a brush, a clash of words and propositions. The words hurt, but those were only words. This one, this one had real weapons. America was walking back from a town that actually accepted their money for once when, after looking up from his thoughts, there England stood with a pistol to his face. It was unmistakable, the tremble in England's arm. Would he cry right then, in front of the colony he was about to murder? Personally, America was amazed his former caretaker managed to hold his composure for so long. Although, a slight film was covering his eyes. The onset of a breakdown. And yet he stayed so strong.

Before he understood what was happening, England tossed a pistol to him.

"Turn around and walk five paces. On the count of three, we shoot," were his instructions. Alfred swallowed. He was somewhere between guilt, fear, and duty. He hadn't intentionally thought of having to fight England because it was really something he hoped wouldn't happen.

"One."

Perhaps by wishing it wouldn't be true, he could delay time.

"Two."

Perhaps by never thinking about it, he could escape it forever.

"Three."

He had hesitated, and it cost him dearly. The bullet caught between the ribs but didn't make its way to the heart. It still was painful enough for the nation to fall to the ground. Poor England. Poor England with his tear kissed eyes, who saw the frightened America and thought only of the child who saw something in the dark. Poor America who saw the blood of his caretaker and realized, he enjoyed this feeling. And he needed more. But not now. Now, he needed to escape.


	2. Just a Bleed

The next time they fought was with bayonets. America hadn't planned England to be, well, so good. Or maybe he hadn't planned on England ever fighting after their first gunfight. There were a few times when the bayonet blade was close, almost too close. His plan, for the moment, was a taste of that sweet glory. That superiority, that short god-like feeling, he needed to have it. Just for a second. And it wasn't like he would hurt England. Not too much at least. Besides, as a nation, he'd heal soon enough.

"England," America said slowly. "You don't have to fight me. We can part civilly."

England laughed. "What do you take me for, a fool? I may have let you off when we first fought, but don't think I'll ever be merciful towards you again brat." England held his bayonet high, poised to strike when he froze from the sound of a sob.

America could see the fear overwhelm those emerald eyes, the fear of hurting the colony he would sacrifice anything for. He kept the act up until England lowered his weapon just a bit more. And that was all he needed. America lunged at him with all the force of a startling wind, brandishing a concealed dagger. He hadn't aimed for anywhere in particular, so it wound up somewhere in the middle of England's chest. He watched in an almost child-like wonder as he shoved the blade hilt-deep into his former caretaker. A dark voice in America's head told him to twist the dagger. Just a tad, of course. He wasn't an animal.

England lay in the mud, red coat crimson, with eyes tightly shut. He had known one day his dear, sweet America would feel the urge all nations do, the one to hurt and destroy because something in him told him to. England just thought it wouldn't be him, the one who cared for and loved him best. England could feel the literal twisting of the knife in his stomach, sapping him of hope and energy. The little America he knew was hidden behind this abomination of urges and impulses. He was lost to a creature that only wanted to feed. But, he supposed, it was his fault for sheltering America from everything. So England would let himself be devoured, all for a greedy colony he loved.

The stillness of England's body had spooked America. He wasn't dead, the ragged breathing convinced him otherwise, but it was too still for the active nation. That voice, the one telling him to harm England, cried for him to take advantage of this. 'Drive the bayonet through him, cut one of his pretty little eyes out, shoot at that failing heart, scratch him, break him, bleed him!' it whispered. Submitting to the voice's requests he slowly pulled the dagger down, creating a slit. Beautiful ruby blood lapped at the fabric of England's coat. It almost seemed to bloom like a newly opened rose. Even with this, the voice wanted more. It _needed_ to have more. While America debated whether to listen to this newfound perspective or not, England feebly lifted his hand to America's face. Gently, he pressed his palm against the still slightly chubby cheeks. With a smile, he stole the dagger from America's surprised hand and gutted himself.

He was horrified. The voice vanished, the feeling evaporated, and America ran to the bushes to vomit. Dry heaving and crying, he couldn't bear to look at the body. Because it was just a body now. A body that just happened to look like England.

Slowly, as he was still trying to get over his nausea, America crept towards the fillet of England (with that image in mind, he made a note not to eat fish for a while). The sight was still terrible. The ground was muddy from blood which made him highly aware that the squelches under his boots were coming from the remains of England's life.

The last seconds they shared were frozen on England's face. His eyes were wide, probably from the pain but maybe from fear as well. His bruised and chapped lips were barely parted. America wondered if he would have seen England's final breath if he stayed long enough. All color seemed to be seeping out of England, almost like the blood pooling under his fraying threads of hair. His body seemed to move without thought as America knelt to touch the hand that, moments ago, rested so warmly against his skin. It was so stiff, so frozen, so unlike England.

Speaking of, it only now dawned upon him how cold it was. Night was falling. He couldn't leave England to the wildness of the dark, but he certainly couldn't bring him to his camp. America's only option was to bury him. He had heard somewhere- possibly from France- that a nation needed to be returned to the soil to heal. So he did. Yet, as he covered the body, the small kisses from the earth did nothing to conceal the bruised off-grey of England's skin. For a moment, he felt...No. No, now was not the time. But before he obscured the face with dirt, America closed the unseeing eyes and gave the cold face a soft peck.

And then he left.


	3. Just a Tease

It was always terrifying for a nation to rise from death, especially in unfamiliar soil. Usually, it was a simple task, unless the occasional coffin was involved. However, England found it difficult to push his way out.

This was too deep, too deep of a grave. It was cold, it was suffocating, and his bones were screaming against his movements. With a jolt, England remembered his prior disembowelment meaning that his insides were also currently his outsides. Undoubtedly, he would suffer an infection from this. The spoiled and rank smell of his blood was an indication it was already setting in.

It wasn't necessarily that England couldn't free himself. On the contrary, a few more shoves and he would have been free. He remained in the ground, breathing his own smell of death, to avoid having to confront America. Judging by his past decisions, England knew he still cared too much to fight properly. And he cursed himself for such a weakness. He was a nation, he was born to bite and claw his way to domination. But with America, he wanted nothing but the gentle caress of his voice. So he lay exhausted under the layers of dirt.

At least, England supposed, he would have the time to finally rest after centuries of war and agony. Even if this was a bed of dirt with a pillow of seeped blood.

The shifting of the dirt and a soft haze woke England from his grave. But the light was too bright, making him wince from the sudden change of scenery. He was still tired, too tired to scold whoever disturbed him.

"Oh England, I thought you were stronger than that."

The nation opened his eyes. He didn't need them to adjust to tell him it was America. He didn't need anything more than the hands resting on his shoulders and the voice that spoke beautiful, beautiful lies.

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you," America said.

That was a lie. But England liked how it sounded coming out of his mouth.

"I'll patch you up and everything." The sky blue in America's eyes was dark, too dark to truly mean that. But England was an indulgent country, so he indulged in every word.

He let himself be pulled like a weed from the ground to be laid on America's lap. From some hidden pocket, his former colony pulled out a needle and some thread. England tried to warn him that the string would be too weak, that even a human's strength would break through the stitches, but the only sound he made was a soft sigh. His voice had failed. Or maybe, he had given up coddling a child who seemed intent on only destruction. The unreadable look in America's eyes told all. The colony had planned to weaken him the whole time. How pitiful.

As America focused on the needle against England's skin, the nation found himself remembering old words. Words seemed to be his only comfort these days. But when minutes became hours, he found it hard to concentrate. A heat was starting to consume him as he was being closed up. He knew that the infection was almost definitely being contained within him.

How could America do this to him? Couldn't he see what was happening? Oh god, it burned. But he wouldn't squirm, he needed to retain some dignity at least. At least England managed to whisper some love-sick words to America between the waves of nausea: "I would rather be the whore who receives your pains than the dagger that carves your wounds". It took an effort to say that, almost too much. No matter, it was for America and any effort could be rewarded.

"You were always good at saying meaningless stuff England," America smiled. For whatever reason, his former colony decided to rest his face in the crook of his neck. Every few seconds or so, he would be nuzzled softly.

"You know," America mumbled, "The smell of death suits you." England didn't object when two eyes looked selfishly at his waxy ones. England didn't object when two hungry lips met his. England didn't object when two strong hands groped and crushed his windpipe, forcing out all the air he had left. He didn't object as he died the second time that day, awakening only to soft raindrops against his bruised skin.


	4. Just a Cheat

**Goes well with a side of 'Breathe' by Fleurie or 'Make You Feel My Love' by Adele.**

It irked England that he couldn't lay a finger on America, not even in self-defense. Why? Well, perhaps it was the little sliver of human in him. The one that told him that this rebelling colony was just a confused child, a child that looked up to him for guidance all those centuries ago. And why wouldn't he hesitate? Every time America fell, every time America cried, every time something cataclysmic happened to the child, England was right there to work a miracle. He had always been there. Well, when it mattered at least.

Groaning, he peered at the mess of tangled string that ran in a zig-zag across his stomach. England could see his organs pushing against the paper-like skin of his body. A single thread remained unbroken. It was the only thing keeping him together as he limped back to his army base. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, and every second he reminded himself this was all because he couldn't hurt a monster.

He needed to remind himself that every time he saw America. Though he had a human face, even a human name, 'Alfred' never existed. Nations were made to deceive, that was how they gained. Selfishness was part of their nature. They had to, how else would their people remain free? Surely not from being civil.

England knew he was riling himself up. If he wanted to stay alive for just a few more moments, he needed to stay calm. His existence literally hung by a thread, and there was no way he would allow himself to lay exposed, yet again, by death.

Why would America want this? He thought he had been a decent guardian. He thought, perhaps, America even…

England froze. Something warm and thick was dripping down his body. With a numb hand, he felt for the thread only to find wet and torn flesh. Slowly, he dared a look. His entire torso was a mess of gore and blood. Maybe he underestimated the strength of that thread. Nations weren't meant to take this much abuse, he thought as he collapsed. Once more he fell back to the darkness of death.

There weren't enough words to describe England's relief to waking in a familiar tent. It seemed that some battalion had discovered him a few hours after his collapse. Clean stitches and new clothes, there was nothing he'd rather be welcomed by. Not even-

"Commander Kirkland," a soldier saluted. England waved away his gesture of loyalty. As efficiently as he could, England threw on the provided clothing. He took care not to wince in front of the soldier. A nation should never look weak in front of their people. Though his act lacked truth.

"It would appear that you're debilitated, sir," he began. England held up a hand both to silence the soldier and for him to gather enough breath to speak. Standing was still a bit difficult.

"And you should take care to remember who your superior is," England said. Nodding, the soldier left.

Careful not to disturb his healing flesh, England sighed in relief. He could only put up the 'strong nation' act for so long. Besides, he had work to do. And it would require all of his strength.

Checking in a bag with some of the personal belongings he had brought, England had found his spellbook carefully tucked away with some herbs and chalk. He made off with all three easily. Not that anyone would have dared question him, their sovereign nation.

England walked until the book, small as it was, felt like lead and his huffing almost broke the new stitching. Almost. Before he went any further, he needed to rest. Normally, this wouldn't have been too taxing of a spell but with his current state so weakened from revivals he needed some help. With a few words and some green willow, England made a simple rejuvenating potion to aid the process. It was bitter, but he'd had to drink worse in the past. When the hints of the potion set in, finally, he could begin.

What every good summoning needed was a pentagram. Obviously. Though, with the way his hand would tremble, it wasn't the smoothest. No matter. This wasn't a pentagram meant to hold something. For the smaller details, England almost had his face to the dirt to make sure his chalk-strokes were correct. Satisfied, he stood and brushed off the debris from his clothing. With the help of his book, he said the words of an ancient spell. But all spells sounded ancient, he supposed. This one just needed more enunciations. When his words no longer echoed through the clearing, the pentagram seemed to fill with a gelatinous substance. But it wasn't water, it moved too unnaturally. This was the demon he needed.

Despite it not having a body, the thing retained a somewhat slug-like form. It looked as thick as tar but was bluer than even the sea. A gaping mouth took up its torso with folds hinting where the eyes would be.

Gurgling, the demon asked, "Why have you summoned me?"

This was it. There would be no take-backs after he spoke. "I have come to bargain," England said. This seemed to please the demon as it sloshed around in the barrier of the pentagram.

"You know how these transactions go." It was practically bubbling with anticipation. Sighing, England stepped into the crude circle. This was the only way he'd ever be able to face America. This was the only way he'd ever win his colony back.

"A sacrifice of love. Not odd, but still peculiar," it noted. It softly caressed his face, pressed itself against England's lips, doing everything to mimic the desires it could feel in England. It disgusted him that the creature knew his fantasies this well. For a moment he even felt himself return those gestures. He couldn't help it...he was starved of affection. At least, the affection he craved. Gently, with two jelly nubs, the creature opened the nation's mouth. In a swift motion, the blob shoved a piece of itself into England's mouth and forced him to swallow. Within moments, the nation fell to his knees on the brink of retching.

He knew what he was doing. This demon would eat every single emotion he had that connected with America. It would eat away everything until only a soulless, strong, and capable England remained. It still felt as though acid was eating him from inside, though. England found himself fisting his hands in the dirt from the pain. When it was satisfied, the small piece of demon pushed itself back out. Though not without causing him to retch horribly vile ichor. He expected that. A demon did just worm into his soul.

With its piece returned and hunger sated, the demon slowly evaporated. "Remember," it hissed "if you come into contact with my kind, all your feelings shall return." With that, it fizzled out of sight.

Why would England ever be foolish enough to do that again? His throat was raw from the ichor and his head was spinning from the smell demons usually left whenever they finished their business. Emotion demons were always such a pain.


	5. Just a Problem

England had seemed, at least to America, to have lost all personality in a matter of weeks. When they fought, he would try to coax out a conversation or even just a reaction. Anything would be better than the blunted green eyes that held nothing but emptiness. Hell, even a frown would be more acceptable at this point. Yet England always held the same uncaring, unphased look.

Every encounter ended up with them being equally matched somehow. For a nation that had thrown buffalo around as a child to be beaten back, heck, almost defeated by a much older and frailer nation was shameful. While America felt like every movement scraped his muscles together like sandpaper, England looked perfectly fine, even annoyed by the notion that his body needed to rest. How did he get so much stronger? How could he push himself this far when, previously, America could win the fight by pretending to fucking cry?

It made America so furious that he slugged that blank, stupid face in the middle of a fight. It caused the empire to stop momentarily. He took this to his advantage, shoving England to the dirt. For as long as he could America scratched, punched, and clawed. England didn't care what he did, he barely flinched at each blow. No matter how many times England was hit or how many bruises bled, he only had a look that seemed to say, 'Are you done yet?'

America was wearing down. Though he was strong, his frustration made him use his strength too quickly. America could feel himself straining to continue. That was so foolish of him.

He choked when hands wrapped themselves around his neck. England, face bloody and eyes dead, was squeezing the life out of his lungs. America thought of the irony of this moment. Oh how the tables turned. Maybe he shouldn't have been so rough with England?

With the last of his breath, America gasped, "How funny, and here I thought you loved me. How quickly your mind changes, dear."

England didn't say a word.

His vision was darkening, almost like little tadpoles of shadow were blocking his vision. Whether it was from the pain, betrayal, or the humor of the scene, America let a few tears fall.

One, two, three fell on England. And then the empire let go.

It was almost like his vision exploded back. Everything was too bright and overwhelming. When his eyes no longer screamed against the light, and his head didn't spin, America saw an England (perhaps it scrambled out from under him) standing an arm's reach away from him. Or maybe it wasn't England. It didn't look like England. No, this England was crying pitiful fat teardrops and shaking in fear. It looked disgusted with itself and glanced at its hands in horror. It tried to reach for America but seemed to be too ashamed to be closer than a few inches.

This England stood there with large, lost and apologetic eyes while he struggled to stand. This England didn't move when America had the upper hand. This England didn't run when he brandished a bayonet.

Sadly, this England didn't move when America removed its foolish head.

Tears were still fresh on those green doe eyes.


End file.
